


Sure Shot

by flinchflower



Series: Flashback [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Childhood, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Teaching, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt #2: Basic (past day). Flashback to the Rifle That Won The West.  John Teaching Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure Shot

John sighs, one of a million such sighs that he’s heaved in the last year.

“Dean, it’s just a basic thing, and you’ll get it sooner or later.” Not that many eight year olds are sharpshooters. He’s pretty sure his will be, though, and not because he’s pushing, either. His little boy’s had this scary drive, for the last four years. 

“But Dad… let me try again, please, please Dad?” 

“No, son. That’s it for today.”

“But I know I can get it, Dad, just let me-“

“Dean. That’s enough, kiddo. Any more and you won’t even be able to lift the rifle tomorrow. You’re done,” he says, the tone of finality ringing heavy through his voice. If Dean were old enough to recognize it, he’d hear just a tinge of fear in there, too. The boy is stubborn, doesn’t always know when to quit. It’s John’s job to teach him temperance, respect for himself and others, and sometimes it’s a hard road. Dean’s just a kid.

And the last thing John wants is to end a pretty good day by having to actually yell, or worse, punish the boy because he won’t let go of what he wants. Fortunately, the heat of the day seems to be taking it’s toll, because his little boy sighs, then holds out the rifle for John. The man takes it gently, lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder. 

“Maybe we can strip them down and clean them later, after Sammy’s in bed.” 

There’s a flash of hope on Dean’s face, and then the stubborn frown comes back. “He’s a Winchester too.”

John’s a little baffled by that. “Yes, he is.”

“Then why doesn’t he help, too, because we’re the best?”

Wow. Eight year old logic. John carefully sorts through the information at hand, hoping he’s going to come up with the right answer, glad that Dean’s used to his old man thinking the answers to questions through sometimes before he speaks. Sammy’s not as patient with that, at age four. He can hear a reference to the Winchester motto, though, so he’ll start there.

“We are the best, son, just like the rifle.” The little .22 all but knocks his kid over, but his own father’d taken him out with one at age nine – the same Winchester rifle that Dean’s been firing today. “Sammy’s not old enough yet.”

“I helped when I was four,” comes the stubborn reply, and the light goes on for John. 

“Yeah, you did, kiddo,” he says, ruffling Dean’s hair. “But you were closer to five, and Sammy just had his birthday, son. Maybe not tonight.” 

“Just you’n me?”

“Just you and me. Now. Dean, go get your brother for me.”

Sammy’s sitting by himself, on a worn picnic blanket that he knows not to leave the boundary of. It worked with Dean, and it’s working with Sammy, too. John does keeps a careful eye on him to make sure he doesn’t stray, because once he gets over-tired, he tends to ignore any and all rules. The little boy has a big book spread out, and John, shading his eyes from the setting sun, can tell that his chubby little fingers are skimming along the text, picking out words. Boy learned to read not long after his brother did, and John has to be careful now about where he leaves the texts he’s researching in.

He watches Dean stamp his foot impatiently, and Sammy’s face falls. The older boy grabs the book, stuffing it into the little boy’s blue knapsack, then all but yanks the blanket out from under his brother’s feet. The tears are quick and quiet, and John sighs again.

“DEAN! Mind your manners, over there.” He stows the shotguns in the case quickly, knowing what’s coming. Dean’s picked the blanket up, and sure enough, Sammy notices his father after the yell, wrenches deviously out of Dean’s grasp, beelining straight for John. 

John picks him up, seeing the trembling lower lip, and lets the little guy bury his face in his flannel shirt for a minute. Then he beckons to Dean. His oldest son trudges over to stand in front of his father, forlorn. 

“Put the stuff in the car, and get back over here.” His voice is stern, carrying maybe more censure than it ought to for an eight year old, but they’ve talked about Dean having patience with Sammy, even when the older boy is upset himself, and he hasn’t quite mastered the lesson yet. The rifle case stays beside him, and he makes sure Dean’s not packing any attitude to the car along with the baggage. Hopefully he’s realized his mistake, and is thinking about it.

“Sammy,” he says quietly. 

“Wasn’t done with Diplodomucus, Daddy,” Sammy says, sniffling a little. “You finish pages,” comes the explanation when John starts to frown. He’s having trouble teaching Sam that he can’t always do what he wants, but the boy’s right, he always does wait until one of his boys finishes the page they’re reading, because he prefers to finish his own reading when interrupted himself.

“It’s Diplodocus, Sammy,” he corrects, hugging the little guy a little tighter. “Dean’s gonna tell you he’s sorry in a minute, okay?”

The little boy lays his head on John’s shoulder, and John knows it’s been a long day, that he needs to get supper into all of them, get his small boy into bed before there’s a tired tantrum, as Dean puts it. His older son shuffles on up.

“Dean, you always stand up straight, hear me?” He waits until his boy stands tall. “You know what to do,” he says, nodding at Sammy, and he kneels down, aware from the death grip that Sam has on his neck that the little guy isn’t going to tolerate being put down, at least not until they get in the car. “Sammy. You look at your brother, please.” 

Sam’s head turns just a fraction, so that he’s peeking out at Dean from under long bangs. Needs another haircut. John knows just how deadly that look is, too, because he’s seen it himself when Dean’s holding the kid, calming him down.

“Sammy, I’m sorry.” It’s heartfelt, and Sammy nods, hesitating, and then reaches out for Dean with one hand. Dean takes it. “You can let Dad carry you if you want,” he says, and John marvels at how he understands Sam’s needs so intuitively at times. The little boy nods, wraps his hand back around John.

He stands up, gripping Dean’s shoulder, slings the rifle case over his shoulder, away from both boys. “Let’s go find some supper, maybe some apple pie,” says, thinking of the diner he saw on the way into town earlier, and that’s got it, both of his boys are chattering happily as he buckles them both in the backseat, and he smiles, loving the chirp of Sammy’s voice as he cranks the engine over on the Impala.

**Author's Note:**

> Music: Jefferson Airplane - It's No Secret


End file.
